Core Memory
by faroutfangirl
Summary: Chell wakes up in a wheat field with no prior memories, save for her name. GLaDOS uses the opportunity to bring Wheatley from space so he can make reparations. The two reunite as Chell tries to uncover her past, but they both discover that their history is more troubling- and emotionally confusing -than either of them remember.
1. Chapter 1

Her mind was blank, save for the fact that her name was Chell.

As she sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, the sun was beginning to rise. Stalks of wheat encircled her and scratched at her ankles. Her hand was instinctively drawn to a bump between the top of her head and forehead. A stinging pain ran through her temples whenever she touched it, and she pulled away.

Fear surged through her veins, as she had not a clue where she was. A box with a heart on each side sat beside her. Why was it here? She ran her hand along the cube, but there was no lid. It was useless. Her breathing became erratic as she scoured her memory banks, but they were empty. The unmistakable sting of tears pricked behind her eyes. Her legs wobbled like the wheat beside her as she jumped to her feet. She examined her surroundings, but there was not a sign of life in sight. Her gaze flickered to her hands, and she rubbed them together as her mind tried to construct a course of action.

She wanted to panic. She wanted to scream. She wanted to admit that she was _afraid_.

But then her tenacity and refined survival instinct kicked in, and she willed herself to calm. Pacing around erratically wouldn't solve anything. Her eyes shut for a few moments, and when she opened them, she had returned to the picture of serenity.

She could worry about who she was and why she was here later, but for now, she needed food, water, and shelter. Eyeing the odd box, she decided to leave it. It was bulky and it would only weigh her down. The road was almost grown over, with sprouts every which way, but it was clear that this was for traveling. Chell turned her head, examining each direction. Without an inkling of where to go, as either side had no signs of civilization, she breathed and went with her gut. Her legs were still soft, and her body slithered with congealed grime as she turned to the right. She kept walking while wishing, hoping, praying, that there was some sort of refuge at the end of this journey.

The road seemed to never end. Lightheadedness made her droopy, and her walking became slow, each step a stomp. Even though she hadn't been awake for long, drowsiness overtook her, and she felt as if she would slump over, asleep, at any moment. Periodically, a tree would appear on either side of the road, becoming more frequent until she was walking through the middle of a forest. She was considering pulling aside and resting for a moment when she saw the house.

It was an old farmhouse, and whoever used to live in it obviously wanted to be cut off from the outside world. Chell tentatively climbed the rickety wood steps up onto the porch, and knocked on the screen door. It didn't seem inhabited, but it was tidy, as the only mess was the plants that climbed up the railing of the porch. When there was no response, she opened the screen and jiggled the doorknob. No surprise that it was locked. She sighed and sat down for a moment on the dusty porch swing, scanning her memory. There was a faint recollection of spare keys hidden underneath mats and cermic pots, and so she snooped around. A key was lodged inside the hay of the doormat. Her thumb ran along the ridges of the key as she evaluated the morality of it. Was this wrong? She was breaking into a home, but it wasn't as if this was a booming city. It was desolate, and it seemed it had been that way for a long while. With a reluctant gaze, Chell put the key in the lock and turned. It opened, and soon she was submerged into a time capsule.

The interior was just as neat as the porch, with bookshelves that contained literature sorted by height, and plush chairs that seemed inviting. She paused in the doorway, unsure if she really wanted to enter. The need for shelter surpassed her sense of decency, though, so she pushed on through. There were pictures on the walls of a family consisting of a man, his wife, and their son, then a child. Her hand grazed the aged glass, fingers running along snapshots: them on vacation, all with smiles that eminated joy; another with the son, even younger then, carrying a backpack and a lunchbox; a domestic scene with the wife reading a book in one of the very chairs Chell stood in front of now. Chell's memory still couldn't pull up any information pertaining to her personally, but if she had to describe a typical family, this would be it. The father was tall and lanky and had unkempt blond hair, the wife had glowing pale skin and dark brown curls of hair that framed her face perfectly, and the child was a mixture of both of them, with his father's hair and his mother's heart-shaped face.

Seeing this- knowing this was what used to live and pulse in the walls around her -made her eyes water. She touched one of the tears, incredulous. The concept of sadness was foreign to her. Why did she feel such compassion for a family she had never met?

Blinking away the water that pooled in her eyes, she walked out of the sitting room and into the kitchen. A sign on the wall read "Love Grows Here." Cookbooks along the counter were held in place by vases with various spatulas and spoons inside, like makeshift bookends. She tried the light switch- miraculously, after a moment, there was still power. The fridge opened with a bit of hesitation, and inside, still cold, was an assortment of standard items, like eggs, milk, and butter, although she knew anything inside it had long spoiled. The pantry was full of cans and boxes, and she grabbed a granola bar. Even though it was stale, it stoked the burning hunger inside her stomach. The wood floors creaked underneath her as she walked in the square kitchen, her gaze landing on a rotten bowl of fruit.

They weren't expecting to be gone for so long.

Perhaps a few days, maybe even a week. That was likely why the house was so tidy, but these people were expecting to return.

Her heart ached for this silent family that she had slowly begun to mourn.

The rest of the house was most of the same. Faded photographs and inspirational quotes were everywhere. Upstairs, in what she assumed was the boy's bedroom, there was a large, plush comforter. From what she could pull from her memory about teenagers, he seemed to be one when he was yanked away. Throughout the whole house, there was an ubiquitous motif of coziness. The parent's bedroom had a plush white comforter, pillows, and several candles.

What had happened to them? She kept looking for an answer, but there was none to be found, at least not from what she could pull from the clues around her.

Unable to bring herself to sleep in one of the family's bedrooms, she bunked in the guest bedroom. The sheets were still crisp. A vase on the nightstand held a hydrangea that had long wilted, the water it was in now a murky brown. Light poured out from the window above the bed, and even though it was midday, she found herself being carried off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Space was cold.

Not cold like temperature cold, because even Wheatley knew there was no such thing as hot and cold in space. Space just _was_. No, it was a cold of alienation. Space Core only served to reinforce that point- every minute of every day was filled with blabberings of _ohmygodohmygodohmygodi'minSPACE_! While Wheatley didn't mind blabbering- he was guilty of it himself, he knew -Space Core wasn't someone he could interact with, not really. It was comparable to being trapped up here with a turret- sure, it was company, but it was _empty_ company. That was the worst company of all, because legitimate socialization narrowly slipped through his handles.

His mind lingered on thoughts of _her_ a lot. He didn't like to use her name; it felt wrong, given what they'd been through and what he had done. His optic still twitched at the thought of his backstabbing behavior. Given the chance, he betrayed her with little hesitation. It was simply monstrous, what he had done. Sure, he rattled off an apology, but he knew that was a band aid on a gaping wound. It ached at him, an electrical, stinging ache that pulsed through his circuits.

"I just...I wish I could make it up to her, somehow."

* * *

This She had not expected.

The subject had demonstrated remarkable agility during her time at the Enrichment Centre. After she was released, GLaDOS kept an eye on her from a camera embedded inside a rock some distance from the shed. The girl dragged the Weighted Companion Cube behind her, using torn off pieces of her jumpsuit to do so. Hours had passed, and she had paused for a respite. Her feet that were usually so calculated in every movement tripped, and her head crashed into the Weighted Companion Cube. There had been no movement for 23 hours, 57 minutes, and 18 seconds.

The lens of the camera twitched as it zoomed in; there seemed to be movement near the horizon. She examined the strands of wheat that stuttered from the former subject awakening. The girl's movements were languid, as if she was submerged in Aperture Science Nutrient Gel. A shudder pulsed through her malnourished frame as she surveyed her surroundings. The girl absently ran a hand through her hair, brow furrowed. She wrung her hands together, twisting her wrist and letting her fingers rub into her palm. Uncertainty scurried along her face, then a flash of fear. She inspected the Weighted Companion Cube as her hand fidgeted with the skin on her neck.

The girl's current behavior was remarkably uncharacteristic. Gone was the face of tenacity, replaced with one of confusion. It was clear as the fact the subject was fat: she had amnesia. Whether it was retrograde or anterograde, She couldn't tell yet, but it was amnesia all the same.

She began to plot.

* * *

A slight ping echoed inside Wheatley's shell. He opened his optic, spinning it around as he exited sleep mode. A message appeared in his vision in bold text: _Prepare yourself._

He knew immediately that it was from Her; he could almost hear the sweet-yet-bitter curl of Her voice. He was probably going to die now, wasn't he? Even though he knew it was what he deserved, dread coursed through him, settling in every crevice of metal as it congealed. How would She do it? Make him self destruct? Drag him in the path of a meteor? Tear apart every piece of scrap that held him together, centimeter by centimeter?

As he contemplated the details his demise, he felt two jet thrusters sprout from his side and begin to propel him towards the earth. Sputterings slid out of his mouth, an avalanche of whas and oh gods and ahhhs. Space Core was none the wiser. A voice- Her voice -slithered into his mind.

"Welcome back." He went to reply, but he found his voice deactivated. The outer core of his shell was growing very, very warm, and he realized this is how She decided to kill him: melt him until he was nothing more than a burnt husk of metal smeared in the dirt.

She let him revel in his panic for a moment before continuing. "After I finished cleaning up your mess, I did some reflection. I found myself reading philosophy. Terribly dross. After all, if these men knew so much about life, why did they die? But that's beside the point. I learned that killing you, as enjoyable as that would be, isn't the most painful punishment I could inflict. The worst enemy of a man is himself." She let the words stand for a moment. "Of course, you are not a man. Not yet."

The speed of his descent began to slow. "I am going to let your conscience do the hard work for me." Her voice dripped with sugary sweetness as she said, "Do you remember the subject you betrayed? Well-" She laughed, she actually _bloody laughed_ "-she has amnesia, and likely has no idea what moronic things you've done. After a few...modifications, I'm going to let you out." _Out? Out where? To_ her? Even though he had slowed, he was still so bloody hot, and could feel his optic sliding shut. His mind raced with thoughts of _her_ and _modifications_ and _ohgodohgodithinki'mmeltingggg_

Her voice was light, even as he felt his shell weld to places it shouldn't. "The decision is yours to make. You can choose not to tell her, and her eventually find out and hate you. Or, you can tell her straight away and her hate you. Either way, she hates you. And as you go through this, just know that I am watching your every move and thought. Don't even think about running away, as you'll immediately self destruct. Oh, and there is one last thing: the modifications. I found this little meat sack in one of the warehouses. It'll be your new home. Sweet dreams."

As the channel went mute, the world careened into an inky darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

The reboot was slow.

First, his visual processor blinked to life, peering at the blue sky above him. A few clouds resembling conversion gel spotted the canvas.

Next, the tactile system came online. Dirt crumpled beneath him and he felt a grainy sort of mud cling to his...handles? He wasn't certain, as they didn't feel like the handles in his shell. There were more points of articulation, and were below him instead of above him like his handles were. He attempted to roll down, but the motion only moved one part of himself- his head. He peered down to see a torso, arms, hands, and a mess of legs and feet.

Oh God, he was in a bloody _android_ body.

"This can't be happening," he said to nobody in particular. Talking felt different. Before, he simply willed the sentences out, and they reverberated through the air. Now, he had a mouth and a tongue and they clacked together to form words. Somehow he knew how to take the thoughts in his mind and contort them into sound, as if it were ingrained in him somehow.

The scent system was next to load. The stench of caked, sour gelatin that clung to every inch of his body snaked into his nose. His throat and stomach clenched in an involuntary motion, climaxing in a cough that turned him on his side.

A rubbery, crumbling sensation in his mouth registered, and he recognized this as taste. He immediately spit to get the coarseness out, groaning at the sight of the gel coated with saliva. Was there anywhere on him it hadn't nestled into?

With a jerk, his arm flew up above him, and after multiple spasms, his hand finally met his face. His fingers, which he was still learning how to operate, ran along his cheeks. The skin was tough and hurt when he tugged at it. The notion that he was an android was still fresh, and an emotion clawed from his stomach into his mind. His hands trembled and clenched, and a tightness settled in his shoulder blades. The feeling of fright was familiar, but its side effects were new.

He was _outside_. Well, at least he thought he was. This could all be a simulation, another test designed by Her, but he had a hunch it wasn't. Everything was too real, without the blemish of panels and cubes. Not even She could simulate the brittle sensation of dirt.

He was _alone_. Immediately his thoughts drifted to her, his only friend. But she wasn't here to rescue him now; he wasn't sure if she even would after the way he acted. He willed her to appear in that hideous orange jumpsuit and save him. Drag him by his legs- his spiraling, clumsy legs -and take him away from all this. His memory began to recall Her words as he plummeted through the atmosphere: how the lady had amnesia and didn't remember him, how there were going to be modifications, how he had a choice to make. Then there was the singeing of his shell, and here he was.

Was he...was he _human_?

She said he was, but he wasn't sure how much stock he could put in that. Truthfulness was not one of her outstanding qualities. Then he remembered Her comment on how She could see every single one of his thoughts, and goosebumps shivered down his arms. It wouldn't be out of the question that She was monitoring him. God knew that monster had every kind of twisted Science you could imagine back There. There was no trace of Her presence inside him, no mocking voice, no crawling along his skin, but he couldn't dismiss the possibility. If She was watching him, then he might be human. Not an android. _Human._

The thought made him squeeze his eyes shut. Maybe...maybe if he just did as She said and found the lady, She'd place him back in his old core. Make reparations. Get it over with. The lady would hate him, but at least there was a chance he could go back. It was the only way. Disobeying Her always had grave consequences.

Air filled his lungs and he exhaled in a deep breath. Time to boot up the legs. His right leg pivoted upward, and proceeded to collapse onto the dirt. On his second attempt, he managed to slam his foot into the ground. His left foot soon followed, and he managed to stand up on his two legs with a wobble. The process was slow, but soon he had mastered standing, and then walking. "Mastered" was a relative term- in his definition, it was "not falling down repeatedly." He struggled to move his limbs as he made his way through the field of wheat. He almost laughed. Wheatley going through wheat.

Someone had been through here not long before him; a faint path led the way. He still wasn't sure what to make of being a human. It was an altogether different operating system. Before, he had felt pain, but it was simulated, only triggered so he would know he needed repairs. Now, there were appendages that went every which way, a stomach that perpetually nagged him, and a head that whined as if it were being inflated.

A companion cube marked the side of the makeshift road. The wheat around it was pressed to the ground, as if something- or someone -had been lying there. His head swiveled as he examined the surroundings. Not a soul in sight. Had the lady been here? There was nobody else it could be, as she was the last test subject, but he couldn't say for a certainty. Regardless, someone had been here not long ago, and it was his best lead yet.

How was he supposed to bloody know where he was going? He had no map, no clues, save for the cube he had passed. Perhaps there was some kind of map hidden away in this new body, but he couldn't find it. He hadn't given the lady near enough credit. He had heard the phrase "put one foot in front of the other" used to describe a situation where one needed to focus on the simple tasks, but the awkward alignment of his limbs seemed incredibly complex.

What would he say to her? What _could_ he say? Knowing She was watching made it all the worse. All of his flaws added up and toppled over, forming him, the dumbest moron who ever lived. He could almost feel Her judgmental glare, and it made a feeling he had never experienced before pulse in his stomach up to his throat.

So this was what nausea felt like.

There were perks, though, to this whole "human" business. Even though he had been without his rail for a while, the freedom to walk wherever, whenever, was intoxicating. It was similar to the power surge he got when he took over Aperture. The reminder coursed through him with a shudder, triggering a gnaw at the bottom of his head. He could feel guilt as a core, but nothing like the self-condemnation that made his throat tense and head throb.

After what seemed an eternity of stumbling through wheat fields, he came into a clearing. The shed She had kicked him out of was far outside of his range of vision, now, and a dirt road sat in front of him. The faint outline of footprints drifted to the right, and his uncooperative legs reluctantly started down the path. Better than nothing, he supposed.

There was this ache in his stomach- he supposed that was hunger? A burning pit was thumping in his midsection. Oh, God, how many times did he mock the lady for clutching her stomach? He knew pain, but hunger wasn't exactly that. Uncomfortable wasn't the right word- maybe nagging and persistent? Either way, he felt that pain in the back of his head again, the one he knew was guilt.

He had treated her bloody terribly, hadn't he?

* * *

Chell was uneasy.

This house wasn't hers. She had no right to be here. And yet...as her hand grazed the wood paneling of the living room, she felt a connection. She recognized this place, maybe from a long gone memory.

Still, she felt she was impeding on something almost sacred, like her touch would turn the carefully curated home into ash. She didn't realize how lonely she was until almost a day later, when it suddenly hit her like a stack of books that fell from a top shelf. She craved companionship. As her fingers skated across the glass of a picture frame, she realized she wanted this. Not necessarily a family, but someone she could laugh with. Trust. Love.

The compassion was obvious in the photographs- in one shot, the boy, then a young child, was laughing while the mother looked on with a smile. Another, which must have been one of the most recent, depicted the family dressed up but still effervescent with happiness. The father had his arm wrapped around the mother's waist, and the backdrop of balloons indicated they were at a party. Two smiling faces in the background- one of a redhead woman and a man with brown hair -punctuated the scene, and her yearning for friendship only deepened. The taste of her freedom felt earned, as if she had fought for it. But what point was there in freedom if there was no one to share it with?

Was she all that was left of humanity? And if she was, could she bear it?

* * *

The footprints had grown faint, and so had Wheatley. He had taken a turn or two, aimlessly hoping that the next rotation of his feet would lead him to his destination. His hope had begun to ebb away when he saw the cottage.

It was a cute little thing, with faded blue siding and white shutters. Abandoned flower bushes encircled the house, and tired ceramic flowerpots populated the porch steps. Tentatively, he willed his feet to climb the stairs, wincing when the wood creaked. She probably wasn't even here; this was a stab in the dark. He raised his hand in a fist and knocked.

* * *

Chell froze when she heard the creaking of the steps and the eventual knock. What could she do? What if it was the owners? How would she explain herself? There were no nearby windows, so she couldn't easily see who was there. She willed herself to stay calm as she she slid her feet across the wooden floor towards the door and inched it open.

It was a girl. Her auburn hair was piled on the top of her head, and her face, pale and papery, scrunched in surprise when she saw the door open. A smattering of stutters flew out of the girl's mouth before she turned around and sprinted away.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sorry for such a long wait! Feel free to follow me on tumblr for updates. My username is wheatleyandchell.**

* * *

Wheatley rapped his head against the door in frustration. Of course she wasn't here. Why did he think she would be? He had taken so many turns in the labyrinth of paths that it was only logical that she wouldn't be here. Still, he jiggled the doorknob, hoping it would open and she would be standing there. It was locked, though, and a new feeling rose in his collarbone. It wasn't quite a headache, but still gnawed at him, and made him feel like crawling into the fetal position on the porch.

"Pathetic. I'm absolutely pathetic."

His optimism and naivety would lead to his death, he knew. He didn't know much about maintenance on one of these human bodies, but he couldn't go forever without food or water, and it seemed he was running dangerously low on both. The main motor of this thing coursed the electricity of this body through his circuits. That was the heart, wasn't it? And blood and veins.

A rush of adrenaline jerked his drooping head upright. He needed to find a way in; it was his only chance at survival. His head swiveled as he looked for a point of entry other than the door. There were two windows framed by shutters. _Glass_. He knew from Aperture that those could be broken.

Though something tugged at him, told him this was morally wrong, he picked up one of the ceramic flowerpots and hurled it at the window with all the strength he had left. Both the window and the pot shattered. As he climbed through the opening, pain sliced through his upper arm. It wasn't like the pain he felt when he plummeted from the atmosphere. That was a burning, somewhat dull pain, but this was sharp and made him gasp. A line of red slid down the limb as he entered the cottage. He dabbed two fingers on the wound and held it up to his nose. It smelled metallic, but not like the steel of Aperture. This was organic and warm, whereas the metal of Aperture was sterile and cold. Oh, God, he was leaking! With blood! His basic knowledge of human anatomy reminded him that _humans aren't supposed to do that_ and _you're going to bloody die_. His chest rose and fell at a faster pace, and his already shaking hands became even more erratic.

"Doesn't this thing repair on its own?" He said to the empty room. "If it does, it sure is taking its sweet time!" He needed to plug it, somehow. The loosest article of clothing he had was his tie, which he took off and wrapped around his right arm. The gash didn't seem too deep, which was fortunate. Why were there were so many ways to damage the hardware on this body?

His left hand held the tie in place as he examined the cottage, breath normalizing. It was quaint and undisturbed, and he peered at the shards of glass on the kitchen floor with a grimace. The interior decorations were a jarring departure from the sleek, white panels of Aperture; the walls were covered in cream with a speckled pattern of red flowers. The tip of his index finger kissed one of the blooms.

A stove and a refrigerator sat in the room where he had intruded, marking this as the kitchen. "Kitchens...kitchens have food, don't they? And I need that, don't I?"

He rummaged through the cabinets, eventually finding a can of green beans. After struggling with the lid for a moment, he managed to pull the tab and get into the contents. He knew he should sanitize his hands before eating, but he wasn't exactly sure _how_ to do that, and the hole in his stomach was getting dangerously close to making him double over. The beans didn't have too much of a taste. Slightly...earthy, he supposed. He could not recall ever tasting anything before, so there was nothing to compare it to.

There was liquid inside the can, but after he took a sip, the saltiness only exacerbated his thirst. His lanky arms rifled through the cabinet, and his hand landed on a dark bottle of liquid that read "Vanilla Extract." With a bit of precision- he was still getting used to this new operating system -he screwed off the lid and gave it a sniff. He had olfactory sensors as a core, but this was a scent he had never experienced before. It evoked the same feeling as sunshine- warm and cozy and sweet - _sweet_. That was the word, wasn't it? It smelled sweet. He couldn't recall ever smelling anything like it back There, as even when it was overtaken by nature, the automated processes doused everything in disinfectant. But this smelled wonderful, and even if it tasted as half good as it smelled, it would be delicious. He took a swig.

"Dear God! What is this?" He immediately spit into the sink, his body making the same motion it had before when the gel had coagulated in his mouth. It tasted bitter, like the smell of the bleach that coated Aperture panels but with an edge. His tongue jut out, as did a cough.

As he looked for something less disgusting to rinse his mouth out, he wished there was some sort of user manual to this thing.

* * *

Chell sprinted after the girl. While the stranger could run fast, her pace began to slow as she lost energy. Chell soon caught up to her, noticing how this girl strained while Chell barely panted. Just what kind of physical turmoil had made her so fit?

As the girl slowed, Chell saw how skinny she was. Baggy patchwork clothes covered nearly every inch of her body, but her narrow frame was obvious. The girl's gaze kept towards the ground, and her right hand rested on her left forearm.

"I don't mean you any harm," the girl said. Her voice was meant to sound confident, but it crumbled and faltered with a tremble on the last syllable. The way the girl shuddered and spoke with a voice on the cusp of tears made Chell wonder if she was the first human she had seen in a while. That would make her fear understandable, even justified.

"Who are you?" Chell asked, deciding to get straight to the point. The girl looked up, and her mouth fell slightly ajar in recognition.

"Chell?" she asked.

The fact that this _girl_ \- this complete stranger that Chell had never seen before -knew her _name_ made Chell recoil in shock. She looked behind her and to the side, wondering if maybe there was another Chell she could have been talking to. When nobody else appeared, Chell demanded, "How...how do you know my name?"

"What did they do to..." the girl trailed off. She opened her mouth, and then closed it again, debating on whether or not to share. "I...I'll tell you when we get back. I don't like being out here." She fidgeted her boot into the dirt.

Chell sighed. It could be a trap. Perhaps the girl was a murderer, or a cannibal, or another kind of disgusting personality that bloomed in this wasteland. But did she honestly have a choice? This stranger was her best option to get answers.

"Fine," Chell said in her sternest voice. "As soon as we get back, you tell me how you know me."

"Okay," the girl squeaked. Gone was the aura of confidence, replaced with a mousy air. Chell realized that in her haste, she forgot to grab her boots, and sand squirmed in between her toes. The sound of the girl's boots crunching into the ground was all that could be heard.

"I'm Marilyn, by the way," she said, breaking the silence and running a hand through her auburn hair. "Since I already know your name, it only seems fair you know mine."

"Marilyn. Nice to meet you, I guess."

They marched back to the farmhouse in silence. Marilyn trailed a bit behind her so Chell couldn't get a solid glance at her face. The girl kept pulling at her hair and running her hand through it, signaling her discomfort, and she couldn't help but wonder if she Marilyn was from That Place, whatever it was.

That Place was still a blur to her, an amalgamation of a modulated voice, sterile walls, and orange and blue. Maybe it would be best if she didn't know more about where she had come from, but somehow she knew that she wouldn't be complete without knowing the extent of what That Place had done to her. The words on her shirt were torn and disfigured, and the only thing she could make out was the circular logo. Even though she had no idea what it symbolized, the sight of it made her uneasy.

"Were you living here?" Chell asked when they arrived back at the farmhouse. She noticed Marilyn started to relax once they got inside- her shoulders weren't as clenched and the hunch in her back lessened. Chell figured Marilyn was a few years older than her- in her late twenties, perhaps.

Marilyn nodded, and started fidgeting with the fringe of her canvas bag. "I try not to disturb things. Keep it the way they left it. That's why...that's why I knocked. Out of respect."

Chell wanted to ask if she knew anything about the people who used to live here, but decided to pry on the matter of her past instead. They walked out of the small foyer and into the living room, where Chell sat on the sofa and Marilyn in a chair across the room.

"What do you know?" Chell asked plainly.

"...I don't know much. My memory's still murky. I...I know your name. Chell. Chell Johnson." Her voice was quiet, and she picked at her nail beds. "Did they...did they make you forget, too?"

Chell bit her lip. _Chell Johnson._ "I woke up in a field without knowing anything and found my way here." Even though she was laying her cards on the table, Chell tried to evoke authority into her voice.

Marilyn nodded. "I've been here about a year. I'm still remembering things. I don't know what they did to you. I don't even know what happened, not really. But maybe...maybe it'll get better with time. I'll try to remember what I can about you. I don't know if I can just _tell_ you what I know, though. It's all so scattered, like pieces of a torn up newspaper." Her voice cracked. "And...I don't like thinking about That Place. But I can try." Chell swallowed. So Marilyn _was_ from There.

"Thank you," she said. Chell broke her gaze, and after a moment, asked, "How do you live here? I mean, I know you have food, but was it all here? Where do you get it?"

Marilyn took a deep breath and stared at the rug. "I scavenge. I go to different houses I've found and stash things away. There's a few bunkers filled with food. I salvage what I can and try not to think of it as stealing. I forage, too. I managed to find some books on gardening and so I'm able to tell what's safe to eat. There isn't much game around here, though. At least, not out in the open. I don't go in the woods."

"Why not?"

Marilyn shot a tense glance at the window. "I don't know what's living in there. I prefer to stay indoors. Even when I go out and am out in the open, it makes me anxious." That explained her squirming before.

"Is there anyone else?" Even though Chell didn't specify who she was speaking about, her meaning was clear.

"No. You're the first person I've seen since..." Marilyn trailed off. "Since I woke up. Of course, there could be others. I haven't ventured far out of this area."

Chell stared blankly. They could be the last remnants of humanity. A nagging feeling warned her to be cautious about Marilyn, but Chell got the impression she was just a scared girl. What was this paranoia that constantly monitored everything? What had happened to her to make her this way?

Marilyn coughed, breaking the silence. "I bet you're hungry. Let me find you something to eat."


	5. Chapter 5

The redhead was quiet, and kept to herself. When she wasn't scribbling away in her notebook in almost unreadable swirly cursive, she was reading. There was a dense bookshelf in the living room, filled with mainly science textbooks, although there were classics interspersed. Marilyn rarely read the nonfiction, and opted for novels instead. Chell had tried to read a book, to take her mind off the constant cacophony of unanswered questions, but found it impossible. A few days had passed, and Chell lay under a blanket on the sofa, eyes looking up at the ceiling, while Marilyn curled up into an armchair, reading. The only sound between them had been obligatory "are you hungry?" and "excuse me" since the makeshift interrogation session.

"What are you reading?" Chell asked.

Marilyn was taken aback, blinking several times and wincing in response. "...Pride and Prejudice," she replied, voice cracking from underuse.

"Any good?"

"Yes. It's one of my favorites, actually. I've read it more times than I can count."

Chell coughed at the stale conversation. "Mhm." A second passed. Two. Three. "...have you thought any more about what I asked you?"

The book shut with a soft thud. "A bit."

"And...anything?"

"I..." Marilyn turned away. Her eyes were wistful, full of a sadness that reached beyond the room. "You must understand how difficult this is for me. Aperture is...it is not a place I want to remember."

 _Aperture._

The name clicked like the blink of a camera shutter. Chell pulled at her tank top so she could examine the logo, and the faint outline of the word "Aperture" melted into place. There was a word underneath it that she couldn't make out but she swore she knew, knew it was buried inside archives in her head, but she didn't know how to find it because somehow the map had burned. Her eyelids pinched shut as she combed through her head.

"What was it called?" Chell asked her. "Aperture. Aperture something. What was the other _word_?" Her words tripped with a grunt and she clasped a hand around her own wrist.

"Laboratories. Aperture Laboratories." Marilyn said the name quietly, as if saying it would transport them back.

Chell's chest rose and fell at a rate that felt too fast but she couldn't slow it. "...How far away are we?" she asked.

Marilyn bit her lip. "I'm not sure." The girl's hand fingered her necklace- a green, marbly pendant on a silver chain -while her eyes focused on the bookshelf. "We can't be far. A few miles, maybe. In fact, the underground tunnels might...they might be under us right now." Marilyn's spare arm rubbed the back of her neck.

 _Underground?_ "Marilyn. I don't remember anything. I _need_ every detail, no matter how small. I didn't even know the name of the place, for God's sake."

She saw the girl swallow. "Like I said, I'll...I'll try."

Chell's lips pressed together. She wanted the answers _now,_ not some undetermined time in the future. But Marilyn was her only chance, so she curved her tight lips into a smile. "Fine." A pregnant silence settled over the room as Chell began to pick at her nail beds.

"I meant to tell you that I'm going to get some supplies tomorrow," Marilyn said, eyes on the floor. "It's a little cottage not too far from here. It'd be nice to have some company."

Chell tilted her head. "When do we leave?"

"Dawn."

* * *

Dreams were these finicky things.

They would contort her memories until they were indistinguishable from the filler her mind produced. She only got glimpses of her past, and even then, she wasn't sure if they were real or fabricated.

There were a few constants. though.

A tuft of brown hair that wasn't her own. How her hands always seemed poised to hold a weapon of some sort. A yellow light.

But these were fleeting, and only the chopped ingredients of a blended dream. There was no way to piece them together.

However, the name of _That Place_ acted as a sort of strainer that brought the elements into clearer focus. There weren't any more details, but the concept of Aperture Laboratories seemed more familiar, more _real._ The logo was constantly at the forefront of her mind, as if it had been branded inside her skull. If the trauma was so damaging that two mere words made her knees wobble, perhaps it would be best to let it lie.

But Chell wasn't one to leave things alone.

* * *

There were a pair of hiking boots beside her door the next morning. Chell wasn't sure where Marilyn got them, and they were too big in the toe, but she couldn't complain. They were miles above the beat up spring shoes she woke up with.

As they set out, Chell munched on a stale granola bar. The sunrise was familiar, but provided comfort instead of fear.

Marilyn coughed. "So you wanted to know more about Aperture, correct?" she asked.

"Yeah," Chell replied. "By...by the way, thanks for the shoes."

"It's not a problem. I found them a long time ago and they're far too big to fit me..." She coughed again, and Chell noticed a slight accent in her voice. It wasn't American...possibly British? Her basic knowledge was still fuzzy. "As I was saying- Aperture. It started out as a shower curtain company and evolved into a science empire."

 _Science_. The word triggered a flood of anxiety. Her feet continued to walk but her mind enveloped inside itself, while her physical surroundings blurred into the background.

There were white walls and orange and blue and the stench of bleach so strong it burned your nostrils for hours _and and and-_

She had stopped walking, lost in her thoughts. Her mind was tumbling in fits and starts, with garbled bits of sights coming into her consciousness rapid-fire, but anxiety about _something_ was at the forefront. She could unearth no reason for the anxiety other than _don't take me back don't take me back don't-_

 _There's still Science to do!_

Her mind was crashing, overloading with emotions that she couldn't handle and _you monster you monster you monster_

"Stop!" she yelled. "Marilyn. Stop." Her breath was ragged and deliberate. It was only until she refocused on her physical surroundings that she noticed Marilyn with a consoling hand on her shoulder. How did she end up sitting on the ground?

"Are you alright?" Marilyn asked. Her words were filled with a friendliness Chell hadn't known for a while- in fact, while the emotions seemed familiar, she couldn't ever recall someone showing empathy.

"Do you want to go back?" she asked. Did she?

"No. It's fine," Chell said. "It'd take us just as long to get back as it would to get there, right?" Marilyn nodded in reply.

Boots crunched in the sand.

"I know what it's like, the anxiety," the redhead said quietly. "I have it too."

Chell nodded in reply, her hands beginning to stop shaking and her breathing leveling. The girl looked down at her hands and continued walking, a pursed frown on her face as if she were remembering something painful.

"You're in a much better place than I was, to tell the truth," she said. "Once I found the house, I didn't leave for a week. It was only when I almost ran out of food that I went outside. Even then, I..." she trailed off. "...I ran back in after a minute. I couldn't do it."

Chell swallowed. If she had her memory, she probably would have been in a worse state than Marilyn was. Forgetting was a curse, but it was a curse with a few benefits.

"Then why do you have multiple safehouses?" Chell asked. "If you're so scared to leave the house...why not just have it all in one central location?"

"I did. I was working on moving what I found to the main house and I stopped for the night. I went back to one of the smaller houses the next morning and everything I had left was gone. It wasn't ransacked, just...taken. Since then I realized the risks of putting all my eggs in one basket, so I spread them out. Most of the supplies are still at the big house, but I have stashes hidden throughout the area. It means there's still survivors, though. As terrified as I am, getting out of the house is one of the only ways there's a chance of finding them. It's good to walk around, too. I need to build my strength."

Maybe it was rude, but Chell noticed Marilyn's gaunt frame and thought the same thing. Looking at her own arms, she noticed how _muscular_ they were. She was fit without the slightest clue of _why._

Soon the forest transitioned into an open, sandy road. Unruly blades of grass were on either side of the path, as if they were guarding. Who they were defending- them or That Place -Chell didn't know.

"We're almost there," Marilyn said, breaking the stale silence. They made a turn onto a path with sparse trees, and a blue cottage was nestled in. Marilyn stopped in her tracks and held out her arm. Chell kept walking.

"Someone's there," Marilyn whispered, and pointed to a broken window. Shards of a flowerpot lay among the shattered glass. She was right. Chell could hear the rustling of someone in the kitchen, and her anxiety flared up. This wasn't a good idea, but one of the things she didn't lose in her amnesia was her perseverance.

And then, a voice with a thick British accent. "Bloody hell...is there honestly nothing in this house to eat?"

Chell's feet skidded in the dirt at the voice, only a few feet away from the window. It was...familiar. Her head throbbed, screaming at her to stop, that pushing would only cause pain. But she swallowed and skirted closer to the open window, eventually standing underneath it. She glanced at Marilyn, who stood, terrified, a bit away. Her new boots crunched on the glass.

There was the shuffling of feet, and a disheveled man came into view. A tie was wrapped around his arm, and bits of grass and twigs were tangled in his brown hair. He was in a vest and dress shirt, oddly enough. He adjusted his glasses, examining her, as if he couldn't believe what was in front of him.

"Oh my God. It's you," he said, dumbstruck.

* * *

Thank you to my awesome beta, alisonster, and my awesome friends, starry-nightengale and PortalPanda for inspiration and encouragement! And thank you for being so patient! Hopefully the wait for the next chapter won't be as long. You can follow me on tumblr wheatleyandchell for updates! Have a great day!


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